Level 1 – You learn token phrases like “Hi my name is…” and this either charms/amuses people because you have at the least attempted their language although failing miserably at it (most countries), shock and delight people because a foreigner monkey speaks! (Japan), or stare at you with burning contempt because you are butchering their beautiful language (France).
Level 2 – You learn to say “Do you speak English?” and “I don’t know” really really well due to extreme use.
Level 3 – You learn words like “No”, “Bad” or “I don’t understand (as in you)” because you hear it so damn often.
Level 4 – You learn to cheat your way through life in a non English speaking country without actually having to learn annoying things like verb conjugation by using catch all phrases like “Ok” (as in I’m tired of trying to understand you so I’ll just going to say this now and sort it out later) or “Me too” (as in when the waiter asks you what you want to eat you point to a plate within view and say “Me too”).*
Level 5 – You learn all the dirty words and how to swear (this is coincidently when you start to make friends with the natives).
Level 6 – You either a. start to get really frustrated you can’t communicate beyond monkey gestures or b. start being embarrassed that you’ve been in the country that long and haven’t learned a damn thing so you start to learn things like vocabulary and verb conjugation. You get really excited at any opportunity to use what you have learned even if what you learn is useless and doesn’t communicate anything (like “this is a pen” or ‘there is a blue car”).
Level 5 – Those hours of studying pay off and you start to form the same sentences that toddlers can.
Learn 8 – You feel proud of yourself that you are “speaking” the language until you friend comes to visit you from the States and you realize that what you can communicate in the foreign language (I’d like a red wine please) they can communicate just as well using monkey gestures (points to red wine, makes drinking gesture).
Level 9 – You can watch a movie/show and understand parts of conversations but only the unimportant part like you understand “what are you doing here?” (useless) but you don’t understand the answer(useful).
Level 10 – Conversing like a normal adult and not hearing a. “Your [insert foreign language here] is good” in an encouraging way or b. excuses as to why they didn’t understand you the first three times (there’s a lot of noise in here) other than the fact that you suck.
Level 11 – The ability to get jokes and not be a humorless prick.
*** Levels 10 and 11 are guessed as I am only currently at level 9
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
my hat
So I lost my beanie the other day. I know this doesn’t seem like a big deal for she who loses things but that’s precisely why it’s kind of a big deal. Until last week I somehow managed to not lose this particular beanie for ten years.
I bought this beanie when I was a freshman in University. My college roommate and I each purchased the same style (but different color) matching beanies and scarves from The Gap. I had, of course, long ago lost the accompanying scarf.
It’s a bit of a mystery why I hadn’t characteristically lost the beanie earlier. It has all the characteristics of something I would lose. It’s small, something I often take on and off, and not a permanently attached to my body. Among the list of countless sunglasses, wallets, backpacks, scarves, gloves, and other hats I have lost over the years this beanie managed to elude my absentmindedness and remained within my possession for ten years.
It was with me all throughout University life as I crossed the windy drill field of campus during the winter months of Blacksburg, Virginia. It kept my head warm while I learned to toe in snowboarding and while I laid in my bed freezing when the timer on my heater would go off at night during Hokkaido’s six months of brutal winter. And it remained in my purse, still unlost and at my disposal in case of a hail storm during Normandy’s fickle spring when it had been sunny and warm earlier in the day.
About a month ago I saw a recent picture of myself wearing the beanie and had to admit in a moment of reflection that it was old, had lost most of its shape and was probably ill-suited for chic French society. I decided that, after ten years, it was probably time for a new.
And then last week when I was getting ready to go out on a particularly chilly spring morning, I couldn’t find my beanie to keep my head warm. I searched in all the likely places I usually throw it; in my purse, in the laundry hamper, in my closet. After I couldn’t find my beanie in those places I searched the unlikely places; under my bed, in my drawers, in my laptop case. And when I didn’t find it, I just knew. After all these years I had finally managed to lose it. And it made me sad.
And emotion inspires poetry.
Oh hat,
Where are you at?
I had you ten years long
And now you’re gone
Your absence felt instead
Mostly by my head
Mais c'est le temps je crois
Pour notre au revoir
I bought this beanie when I was a freshman in University. My college roommate and I each purchased the same style (but different color) matching beanies and scarves from The Gap. I had, of course, long ago lost the accompanying scarf.
It’s a bit of a mystery why I hadn’t characteristically lost the beanie earlier. It has all the characteristics of something I would lose. It’s small, something I often take on and off, and not a permanently attached to my body. Among the list of countless sunglasses, wallets, backpacks, scarves, gloves, and other hats I have lost over the years this beanie managed to elude my absentmindedness and remained within my possession for ten years.
It was with me all throughout University life as I crossed the windy drill field of campus during the winter months of Blacksburg, Virginia. It kept my head warm while I learned to toe in snowboarding and while I laid in my bed freezing when the timer on my heater would go off at night during Hokkaido’s six months of brutal winter. And it remained in my purse, still unlost and at my disposal in case of a hail storm during Normandy’s fickle spring when it had been sunny and warm earlier in the day.
About a month ago I saw a recent picture of myself wearing the beanie and had to admit in a moment of reflection that it was old, had lost most of its shape and was probably ill-suited for chic French society. I decided that, after ten years, it was probably time for a new.
And then last week when I was getting ready to go out on a particularly chilly spring morning, I couldn’t find my beanie to keep my head warm. I searched in all the likely places I usually throw it; in my purse, in the laundry hamper, in my closet. After I couldn’t find my beanie in those places I searched the unlikely places; under my bed, in my drawers, in my laptop case. And when I didn’t find it, I just knew. After all these years I had finally managed to lose it. And it made me sad.
And emotion inspires poetry.
Oh hat,
Where are you at?
I had you ten years long
And now you’re gone
Your absence felt instead
Mostly by my head
Mais c'est le temps je crois
Pour notre au revoir
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
hi, i'm glad you're alive
So when my parents came to Paris my mom saw some old friends, one of which she hadn’t seen in 50 years. And when they saw each other it was “Hey, glad you survived”. Literally.
When people were fleeing Vietnam, everything was shrouded in secrecy so, outside of close relatives, nobody knew who left and who didn’t let alone who made it and who didn’t. And unfortunately, the reality of the situation was that many people didn’t.
Each of my mom’s friends had their own story, recounted with now still bewilderment that it happened, and relief that they are around now to re-tell it. They reminisced about what it was like to live under the communist regime similar to how my college buddies and I would reminisce about campus life. And there I was, having the rare opportunity to be the privileged child fly on the wall to hear it all. Uncensored, as told by fellow survivors over coffee.
I like my mom’s friends. They know the value of life, the absence of freedom, and what it truly means to be lucky. And they live their lives this way, never forgetting how it was, appreciating that it’s no longer this way, and realizing the value of things most people take for granted.
That and they fed me my first decent bowl of rice in a while. Like I said, they know what’s important in life.
When people were fleeing Vietnam, everything was shrouded in secrecy so, outside of close relatives, nobody knew who left and who didn’t let alone who made it and who didn’t. And unfortunately, the reality of the situation was that many people didn’t.
Each of my mom’s friends had their own story, recounted with now still bewilderment that it happened, and relief that they are around now to re-tell it. They reminisced about what it was like to live under the communist regime similar to how my college buddies and I would reminisce about campus life. And there I was, having the rare opportunity to be the privileged child fly on the wall to hear it all. Uncensored, as told by fellow survivors over coffee.
I like my mom’s friends. They know the value of life, the absence of freedom, and what it truly means to be lucky. And they live their lives this way, never forgetting how it was, appreciating that it’s no longer this way, and realizing the value of things most people take for granted.
That and they fed me my first decent bowl of rice in a while. Like I said, they know what’s important in life.
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